


I Came Back For You

by Annaelle



Series: CS drabbles/oneshots [5]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU by now, F/M, just some what-if, set after 3x12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 00:38:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3229673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annaelle/pseuds/Annaelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I came back to save you." He came back for her. She wants to argue that he wouldn't have come if her family wasn't in trouble, and maybe he wouldn't have—not so soon anyway. But she knows him (as well as he claims he knows her), and she knows that he would have found a way back to her side, no matter how long it would have taken him. ONESHOT - Spoilers for 3x12</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Came Back For You

“I came back to save you.”

The words ring over and over in her ears, and though everything is… muddled, confused and just plain messed up, she remembers the feeling the look in his eyes  gives her.

He is telling the truth.

He came back for _her_. She wants to argue that he wouldn’t have come if her family wasn’t in trouble, and maybe he wouldn’t have—not so soon anyway. But she knows him (as well as he claims he knows her), and she knows that he would have found a way back to her side, no matter how long it would have taken him.

She opens her mouth to respond—she’s not sure what she planned to say or do (she’s definitely _not_ thinking about jumping across the table and kissing him), but she’s almost relieved when someone knocks on the door.

That is, until she remembers _who_ is knocking.

Walsh.

Damn it.

“Who’s that?” Hook looks over his shoulder with a frown, almost as though he’s ready to kick Walsh’s ass for having the nerve to interrupt their conversation (he probably is).

She’s not sure what to do about Walsh now—she can’t bring him to Storybrooke, she knows that much; even if she _does_ love him.

And she does.

She’s just...

She’s just not sure _how_ she loves him.

The marriage proposal had felt off to her even before she took the potion, and she’d seriously considered just ending things at the restaurant—but she’d refrained because she didn’t want to hurt him.

She still doesn’t.

“It’s Walsh,” she breathes, biting her lip, “Henry invited him.”

“I can get rid of him,” Hook instantly replies, already halfway out of his seat before she registers what he’s saying.

“No,” she exclaims, leaning over the table to grab hold of his hand (the fake one), something that surprises the both of them, judging by the wide-eyed stare he gives her as he sinks back down in his seat reluctantly. “My memories may not be real,” she continues, swallowing thickly, “but he is. And so are the eight months we spent together.”

She doesn’t miss the way Hook flinches, and tries to ignore the guilt that rises up from the pit of her stomach (she remembers that he promised to think of her every moment that they were separated, and she doesn’t doubt for a second that he did—she doesn’t buy his bullshit about going back to being a pirate in the year they were apart either—, and she feels slightly nauseated to knows that while he was thinking of her, she was busy falling for someone who’ll never love her the way Hook does—she tries not to linger on _that_ either) as she gets to her feet.

“I owe him an explanation,” she says slowly, walking around the table to put on her coat.

 “What will you tell him?” Hook’s voice is light, and she knows he’s forcing himself not to be hurt or angry, even though he wants to be. She sighs and shakes her head, turning to look at him for a long moment before the intense look in his eyes is too much and she has to look away.

“I don’t know,” she replies softly, “But I’m not going to drag him into this life—I know that much.”

She turns away from Hook, swallowing thickly as she tries to ready herself for her talk with Walsh (which she knows will be anything but pleasant) when her hand is suddenly engulfed in Hook’s (his good one this time), setting her skin on fire. “Swan,” he says softly, “Emma… Just… There was something off about him—he’s the fellow you met at the restaurant, aye?”

“Hook,” she sighs, because really, she has no time, nor patience to deal with his jealousy, but he interrupts her, shaking his head, “No, love, I’m quite serious. I know you spent a great deal of time with the man,” he’s nearly choking on the words, and she knows he’s very much aware what spending so much time with someone means, “but I’m rarely wrong about these things. Please,” he looks up at her with his large, blue, pleading eyes and damn him, but it’s working, “Be careful.”

“Okay,” she whispers, the word falling from her lips before she can even think about calling him an idiot and telling him she’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She squeezes his hand briefly and offers him a small smile. “Okay. Wait here.”

.

.

.

“I wish you could see this the way I see it.”

She’s aching and she hates to see that hurt, defeated look in Walsh’s eyes, because he’s a good guy, and she loves him, and she loves her life here…

But it’s a lie and she can’t live a lie.

Not even if that means she can’t be with Walsh.

“Yeah,” he breathes after a long, tense moment of silence, “I wish you hadn’t drank that potion.”

She blinks confusedly, turning to follow him with her eyes when he walks away from her. “What?” she chokes, trying to think of _any_ reasonable explanation he could’ve known about the potion (she can’t come up with anything and it just doesn’t make _sense_ ). “What are you talking about?”

“He just couldn’t well enough leave you alone,” Walsh hisses, tossing a chair against the railing (she flinches a little), shivers running down her spine when he turns back to her, tilting his head to the side as his eyes gleam. “We planned for everything—a lot of contingencies. There was no one to come back for you. I admit,” a crazy laugh falls from his lips, “I didn’t see the pirate coming. We all thought it’d be Baelfire, or your parents or even Regina… But the pirate… There’s a mistake we won’t make again.”

“Who are you?” Emma breathes, her voice shaking lightly.

“It’s too bad,” Walsh’s eyes gleam red and, shit, this is _not_ good (why did Hook have to be right, damn it?), “I actually kind of liked you.”

She barely manages to duck in time when he jumps at her, going over the edge of the building, and for a moment Emma actually hopes he fell to his death (she feels horrible about it, but really, he did just admit that everything had been a lie), even though she knows better than to think it’d be that simple.

Her eyes widen in alarm when she sees a fucking flying monkey fly back up at her (her feelings reign from sadness to anger to absolute disgust—she _slept_ with that, gross), and she stumbles back, looking around the small patio to find something, _anything_ , she can use as a weapon.

As the … creature, monkey, whatever, rises above her head threateningly, she scrambles towards the table, barely managing to grab the lead pipe before he is on her.

She swings it against its head as hard as she can, but it just keeps coming back, and it’s _strong_ too—but she’s not some damsel in distress, and if Walsh really thought it would be this easy to take her out, he’s in for a nasty surprise.

She uses the pipe as a club and rams him right in the head, slamming it against his neck before he has the chance to recover, backing him towards the edge of the roof again, hoping that, with the element of surprise, he’ll really just crash into the pavement and die or at least get seriously hurt so she’d have the time to get away, to get to Hook.

It’s easier than she thought it would be.

He struggles, but she manages to push him over, and watches him disappear in a white cloud, before the door behind her crashes open and Hook comes running through, his eyes wide and concern as he checks her for injuries she knows aren’t there.

“What the blazes was that?” He asks heatedly, reaching to touch her (she manages to dodge—she’s really not in the mood—and pushes past him).

“A reminder,” she says bitterly, trying to decide what hurts worse; knowing that _nothing_ had been real, not even Walsh; or knowing that she was right when she concluded that the Savior, the Product of True Love just wasn’t meant to have the real thing herself, “that I was never safe. That what I wanted—” she swallows and amends, “What I thought I could have… It was never in the cards for the Savior.”

“Emma…”

His voice is soft, and compassionate, and she just _doesn’t_ want to hear it, so she shakes her head and turns back. “We leave in the morning. Be here early.”

His eyes are wide and indignant as he exclaims, “I’m not _leaving_. You were just attacked, love—if you think for a second I’ll be letting you out of my sight tonight—”

“God, you’re infuriating!” Emma grumbles, running her fingers through her hair. “I forgot how annoying you are.”

“Well, to be fair,” Hook smirks, “That’s not the only thing you forgot—though it seems your love for handcuffing me ascends mere memories.”

She closes her eyes and counts to ten (really, she asked for that one, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to slap—kiss—that smirk off his face), cracking a small smile as she shakes her head. “You keep giving me reasons to handcuff you,” she challenges, raising an eyebrow at him.

He does, and he knows it and there’s really no getting around it.

“Ah, love,” he grins, “It’s all part of my charm. Besides, I really do not believe kissing you warrants handcuffing and being force-fed.” He wrinkles his nose in disgust, and she can’t help it—the image of Captain Hook being force-fed bologna in jail is just _too_ good—; she burst into laughter, laughing so hard, tears roll down her cheeks.

He looks downright affronted when she finally manages to stop laughing (which doesn’t help at all), grumbling, “Glad my suffering amuses you, Swan.”

“I would say I’m sorry,” she chokes, “But I’m really not—I mean, what did you expect? You kissed a total stranger out of nowh—” The intense, hurt, disappointed look in his eyes makes her stop, and she swallows thickly when he hisses, “You know _exactly_ what I expected, Emma, don’t pretend you do not. I may not have your love, but I like to believe our understanding survived.”

“Hook,” she whispers, desperately trying to think of something, _anything_ , that will make the pain in his eyes disappear. “It wouldn’t have worked anyway,” she blurts, watching him blink confusedly, adding, “True Love’s kiss doesn’t work on memory loss, not even with my parents, so—oh God, why are we talking about this?” She turns away from him (she _can’t_ see the hope in his eyes, not now, she’s not nearly ready for _any_ of that) and takes a deep breath.

“We don’t have time for this, so we’ll ju—”

She doesn’t even get the chance to look at him before he literally _pounces_ on her, his lips devouring hers, destroying every rational thought in her mind until all she can do is kiss him back and enjoy the ride, because _hell_ …

The man can kiss.

She fists one hand in his collar, pulling him closer, sliding her fingers on her other hand through his hair (she doesn’t remember it being so _soft_ , and she really only wants _more_ ). “Hook,” she breathes when his lips briefly part from hers, “We need—we can’t—there’s so much we need to—”

“Hush, love,” he rests his forehead against hers, and she tries to make sense of the maelstrom of emotions his kiss awoke inside of her (just like last time, damn it, _now_ she remembers why she walked away), “We have until morning.”

She can’t argue with that.

She doesn’t want to.

She’s about to be thrust right back into the role of the Savior, where she’ll be forced to think of everyone but her, and what they want, while what she wants doesn’t matter and _can’t_ matter, and damn it, she _deserves_ to let go one time before the world goes to hell—and she wouldn’t want it with anyone but Hook.

(She briefly remembers her father telling  her to enjoy and find the moments, and it occurs to her that Hook is in most of those good moments, and she’s not sure what to make of that).

“Come,” she breathes against his lips, tugging on his hand, “Inside.”

He follows her, allowing her to take the lead (not the entire night—he _is_ pretty damn good with that one hand and his lips and his tongue and _God—_ ), keeping his word; he does not let her leave his sight (or his arms) for the rest of the night.

.

.

.

“Mom…”

Henry’s hesitant voice pulls her from her memories, and she looks over her shoulder, “Yeah?”

“You’re hurting the eggs,” he nods towards the bowl, and she looks down, wondering what kind of spell Hook—Killian—has her under; her voice is hoarse, her entire body is sore and she has a few hickies that earned him a slap in the face (she can hide them from Henry, thank God, but she can’t wear a low cut shirt for the next few weeks).

She kicked him out before Henry came home (literally three minutes before her son burst through the door), so she won’t have to explain to her son why a pirate stayed the night instead of Walsh (there’s a can of worms she’d like to leave unopened like… forever).

“Right,” she shakes her head, pouring the eggs into the frying pan, carefully trying to think of a way to break the news to Henry (of them going back to Storybrooke, not of her and Hook. Not that there is a her and Hook—yeah… No, not going there.) “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Do you…” she hesitates, “believe in magic?”

“Of course,” Henry responds immediately, and she’s hopeful for a split-second before he continues and practically laughs away the question. She just smiles and shrugs it off—as well as his inquiry about Walsh—(they’ll find a way to bring back his memories), giving him his eggs as she tries to think of a way to excuse them going to Maine. “Tasty,” Henry smiles, “But I gotta run—I’m going to be late for school; you kinda overslept.”

She tries not to blush at the memory of _why_ she slept in and replies, “Actually… No school today. How do you feel about going on a trip?”

“Like a vacation?” Henry frowns, returning to munching on his eggs.

“Like I have a new case,” Emma improvises, “It’s in Maine, and it might take me a while and I think we should go. It’ll be like an adventure.”

“No school, a trip with you,” Henry smiles, “Sold. When are we leaving?”

“Good, I already packed,” Emma smiles, trying to ignore the way her heart squeezes when someone (who else but _him_ ) pounds on the door. “You expecting someone?” Henry asks, poking his eggs with his fork.

“Yeah,” she smiles softly, hurrying for the door (she catches herself wondering if she looks okay and curses herself immediately because she _cannot_ worry about ridiculous things like that with Hook of all people).

“Ready, Swan?” He smirks when she opens the door (his lower lip is still a little red and swollen from their frantic goodbye kiss earlier, and it makes her blush a little), pushing past her, into the apartment before she can get a word in edgewise. “Uh, Henry this is Killian—” (it feels ridiculously weird to call him that, despite the fact that she’s screamed it quite a few times the night before), “He’s—I, uh… I’m helping him with his case,” she finally concludes.

“Did you skip bail?”

It really shouldn’t surprise Emma that he came to that conclusion, but Hook takes it like a champ (that, and he probably has no clue what Henry means) and smiles, “Ah, he’s still a little spitfire.”

“Still?” Henry frowns confusedly.

“He’s not a perp,” Emma tries to divert his attention, “He’s a client.”

Henry looks at Hook from head to toe (she can almost see the wheels turning in his head), “Why are you dressed like that?”

That, Hook does _not_ take as a champ and retorts angrily, “Well, why are you dressed like _that_?”

“Alright, alright,” Emma shakes her head, “Killian, can you just… Make yourself useful and put the bags in the car,” when she sees the look on his face, she just _knows_ and innuendo is coming, and she can’t have that, not in front of Henry, so she turns to her son and adds, “Henry, lend him a hand.”

“Wait, we’re really going?” Henry stutters as she pushes his coat into his hand (ignoring how right it looks to have Hook here with them, in the way it _didn’t_ feel right to have Walsh here with them).

“Yeah,” she nods, “We are. Just need one last thing.”

And as she slips on her red leather jacket (she won’t admit how much she missed that thing), listening to Hook and Henry banter and laugh as they get the bags, the only thing she can think of is that, even if she had to give up their simple, easy life in New York, she’s glad that Hook found them.

It’s time to go home. 


End file.
